


Stare

by EmmG



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Lavellan you naughty dalish, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, You go girl give that elvhen racist a good ol' dalish lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmG/pseuds/EmmG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is beauty in the way she moves and he cannot help but stare. Mundane is made fascinating rather easily.</p><p>For the Kink Meme prompt---<a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16181.html?thread=62746421#t62746421">Lavellan gives Solas the lap dance of his long life.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stare

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, I am complete and utter garbage. Someone show me to the trashcan. I've been writing smut for two days straight.
> 
> Or send me trash on [tumblr](http://emmg.tumblr.com/), I like sinning there too.

He was too subtle for ogling and, by extension, too proud. But his looks lingered and so in a way he did stare although he would never admit to it.

Whenever she tilted her head just so, narrow hip jutting out and hair tumbling from her bun.

Whenever, cheeks flushed with drink, her eyes would close and she would sway, mindlessly, naturally, beautifully.

"What a dance," he'd teased her once good-naturedly, greedy lips stealing the flavor of Antivan brandy from her own sloppy ones.

"You like it," she'd accused.

"Perhaps."

"Then perhaps I'll show you more. Eventually."

And while not at all times elegant—there were clumsy falls and awkward stumbles; stubbed toes and split lips from lack of attention—there was something infinitely alluring about the way she moved.

And so he admired.

And stared.

And sometimes she would bend over to tug on a stubborn elfroot blossom, legs so terribly—enticingly—perfectly straight and behind raised—

He would shake his head. Look away. But he remembered and that, perhaps, was worst of all. For then he thought—and Solas did not merely think. He considered, analyzed, obsessed over a single detail and transformed mundane into fascinating.

How she flicked her wrist whenever reaching for an apple.

How she craned her neck just as her smile took on a lopsided quality.

"It's quiet," Lavellan said.

This was a double reverie. She lounged in front of him, long legs thrown over his lap, and in his memory she adapted a brisk pace to keep up with the group, the rise and fall of her small chest unrestrained by a breastband a delightful rhythm to observe.

"Yes, vhenan," he said, smiling gently.

Book in one hand, he ran the free one up and down her ankle, feeling taut yet lean muscles. When his approach neared the knee, she caught his index finger, then the middle, then thumb and the rest of them until they were all twined with hers.

Slowly, she rose and his hand was taken along for the ride as she settled it on her hipbone.

"Dorian can be a moron," she began.

"Indeed."

She bumped him on the nose with her knuckles, chastising. "Elves don't dance naked in the moonlight," she continued, "but I can."

His smile was as ridiculous as her words, though his heart fluttered. "Do you not consider yourself an elf, ma'lath?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Hush," she said. "Don't ruin it."

"Here?"

"There's no one around."

"Hush," —a gentle kiss beneath his eye—"hush," —teeth grazing his jaw—"hush." A little, quick lick along the bladed tip of his ear.

Liquid fire was poured into his bloodstream and he protested no more.

She smiled and it was almost chaste until she popped open the first button of her shirt. Not enough to fully glimpse the creamy swell of her breasts, but more than sufficient to set his imagination aflame. But he did not need that either. Not when he had memories of her beneath them, bare and sweaty, hair plastered to her face as he rutted between her legs.

He palmed those breasts he could not see but knew so well, and she moved in time with the flickering motions of his thumbs. He circled and so did she, hips swaying so very slowly, hands on his shoulders for support as she lowered herself. Breath met breath and he felt her eyelashes against his skin, and she was so beautiful, so warm, so close that he could just pull her into his lap right now and—

But she only exhaled hot air against his cheek and pulled back. And this time she turned away and his hands were lonely. He gripped his thigh, nails almost digging through cloth, as she peered at him over her shoulder.

She moved like water, following the lead of an invisible partner. Always so soft, if softness was even an attribute that could be applied to movement. One hand slid down her side, the other gathered the tangled mess of ashen hair, and she smiled once more. She was willowy and pale—almost a phantom in the low glow of the veilfire torches he insisted on displaying—and followed a tune none could hear, legs parting only to come together with a slow drag of a foot, arms crossing and uncrossing while deft fingers flowed like waves.

"You are staring, vhenan," she murmured.

She paused, though not completely, and mercifully she was near once more. Her touch was feather-light but to him it felt like lightning, moving up his thigh, coming short of where he was so painfully hard already.

"Is it not the point?" he asked, mouth dry.

"It is," she admitted. "At least you are honest about it now."

She did touch him then and his breath caught, stuttered, and almost by instinct his hips bucked into the contact, seeking more of that delicious friction.

He did not quite hear her laugh, but it must have been soft, a mere quiver of air, for she withdrew rather quickly.

But she was not withholding this time, and it was more—more than anything—more pleasing that stolen, furtive glances and looks of pure admiration. For as she swayed, she allowed his hands to roam and to guide her movements—or perhaps follow—into a dance he did not understand, did not know, but felt nevertheless as it brought him to the knife's edge. Any moment, he would tip over and she would laugh at his fall.

She turned again and his hands followed, sneaking beneath her shirt, thieving their way to her breasts which he cupped.  A step closer, and his exploration branched a second path. Down her belly where taut muscles jumped and quivered, and past the waistband of her pants where little droplets of sweat had already gathered on her skin like dew. Lower still and he found the familiar wetness, clinging to his fingertips as he pushed into her—

She sighed. Stilled. Caught his hand and pulled it away from his goal rather abruptly.

But then she turned and so very simply pressed his wet digits to her parted lips.

As she did so, she moved her hips once more, body undulating, crimson blush spreading down her throat and pupils wide. A fitting finale to her performance. It was enough, more than, and he came, not even with a cry or a gasp but with a stuttered breath.

When the haze lifted, he saw her on her knees, undoing his belts and buckles. Air tasted sweet, but he had none left and so she worked him free, smirking when met with a sight she did not quite expect.

"Well then, and here I thought I'd be nice," she said and took him in hand, licking from root to tip to clean him off.

She pressed her tongue flat against the underside of his cock, humming a little upon feeling it twitch, before pulling away.

Settling on his lap, she planted a salty kiss to his lips.

"See, at least you like Dalish dancing," she said, stroking the back of his neck. "There's hope for you yet."


End file.
